


in sickness, in health

by perennials



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, nothing happens. again, title is ridiculous ignore me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2017-01-14
Packaged: 2018-09-17 11:24:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9321338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: “Do sick people still get kisses?” Viktor asks.Yuuri laughs, the sound sweet with morning. “Not as far as I'm aware."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sushibomb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushibomb/gifts).



> written for a lil fic trade [prompt: sickness], hope it is to your liking pal

Viktor is not sick.

 

He is not sick, he insists, coughing like a freight train wound up on fifty gallons extra of engine oil. Outside, the snow continues falling at a leisurely pace, flickering past their window like a shower of cotton-candy-white shooting stars. The fancy, minimalist clock installed on the wall reads 08:01— just barely.

 

I am— _sniff_ — not— _cough_ — sick.

 

Yuuri stares at him blankly from the other side of the room. Flips the toilet light switch. Dries his hands on his pants.

 

“I never thought I'd live long enough to see Viktor Nikiforov fall sick,” he says, and means it. The man is a living legend, has never missed a competition for health reasons, and what's available online of his medical records is a clean slate. As far as the world is concerned, he’s invincible.

 

“Am not—” Viktor begins aloud, but the rest of his sentence gets swallowed up by a chest-wracking dry cough. It takes him another five seconds to collect himself enough to level a sulking glare back at Yuuri.

 

Yuuri sighs.

 

“It's Sunday, at least, which means we’re not due at the rink for training. Makkachin can stay in the living room for today.” He crosses the room, retrieving his phone from the bedside table. “And Yurio’s out meeting a friend from Kazakhstan.”

 

Viktor groans. “He left that early?”

 

“Yup. The kid couldn't wait.”

 

“Wow,” he comments mildly, and coughs again.

 

“Hold on, lemme just—” Yuuri steps out of the room for a moment, spends some time being loud in the next one, and returns with a thermometer. It's the fancy sort, shaped like a very thick highlighter with a curved end, and thankfully doesn't require insertion into any body orifices. Viktor shrugs the blankets off his head obediently, and Yuuri pushes his bangs out of the way as he aims the thermometer at Viktor’s forehead.

 

“How is it?” Viktor asks, combing his hair back into place more out of habit than anything, considering his bedhead has most of it sticking up haphazardly in eight different directions anyway. He glides graceful fingers over the silvery-gray strands while Yuuri frowns at the thermometer viewscreen.

 

Eventually, he sits down on the edge of the bed and holds the thermometer out for him. “Thirty-eight point-five.”

 

“Fuck,” Viktor mumbles, and lets himself fall onto his back (or front, you can't really tell with the blankets bundled around him like a cocoon). A dejected huff follows not long after.

 

Sensing his frustration, Yuuri crawls under the blankets and up the bed until he's side-by-side with Viktor, safe under an expanse of brilliant frothy blue. He wraps his arms around Viktor’s shoulders and pulls him close, resting his chin on his head.

 

“I feel like _shit_.”

 

Yuuri scoffs lightly. “That's what being sick feels like for everyone.”

 

“But I don't _get_ sick,” Viktor grumbles into the crook of his neck. “What am I supposed to do? Buy medicine? See a doctor? Lie in bed all day?”

 

He pops his head out of the blankets to throw Yuuri a half-teasing, half-mournful look.

 

“Do sick people still get kisses?”

 

Yuuri laughs, the sound sweet with morning. “Not as far as I'm aware,” he articulates, still doing that ridiculously cute thing where he wavers between a half-smile and a full one, cheeks dimpling faintly. Viktor sort of really, really wants to kiss him, but he's just been told explicitly not to. He's burning. He's in hell.

 

“Actually, I’m special,” he declares, because he needs to stop burning. “Right?”

 

A noncommittal hum.

 

“You're terrible. One kiss won't hurt anyone.”

 

“You know how diseases are transmitted, don't you?” Yuuri closes his eyes and lets out a wispy breath of warm air.

 

“I am a figure skater, not a savant,” Viktor huffs.

 

Yuuri’s hands go to the softer, shorter hair at the nape of Viktor’s neck. “You're also very cute,” he murmurs idly.

 

And if he can hear Viktor’s heart hammering a-mile-a-minute in his chest then it's no one’s fault but his own.

 

He decides to abandon his dignity and flat-out ask for permission to kiss Yuuri, sixteen year-olds making out in the back of an old pickup truck-style, just as Yuuri announces that he's going to go get medicine, and groceries.

 

“You're going to go out in this storm?” Viktor cries. What he means is, _you're going to go out_ _without me?_ What he means is, _what about me?_

 

“That fever won't go away by itself,” Yuuri replies diplomatically, and begins to extricate himself from under the covers. It's most unfortunate that the flu has dulled Viktor’s reflexes, for by the time he realizes the (now much-needed) warmth in his arms has disappeared, Yuuri is already standing beside him, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He makes for the closet, talking as he walks.

 

“I’ll just get flu medicine, the usual, and maybe some stuff for lunch, it won't take long—”

 

Viktor sticks a hand out and snags the corner of Yuuri’s shirt. “Don't go,” he says quietly, almost pleading.

 

In a heartbeat, Yuuri’s face goes soft. Everything about him, from the slant of his eyebrows to the gooey chocolate mess of his eyes to the slight crescent-curve of his lips, speaks suddenly of helium balloon skies and watercolor landscapes. It looks good on him. Love looks good on him.

 

“I'm lonely,” Viktor continues, in a rare moment of unguarded truthfulness.

 

“What are you, a child?” Yuuri lilts, but already he is turning away from the closet, from the doorway, warm hands finding Viktor’s cold ones and clasping them together. He rubs the pad of his thumb over the back of his hand in small, soothing circles.

 

“Yes. I'm five years old,” Viktor affirms. His heart skids into his throat, hope a hummingbird pulse fluttering under his skin.

 

Yuuri watches him curiously for half a second, then lifts Viktor’s hand to his lips, and presses a reverent kiss to each knuckle in turn.

 

“I promise I'll be back soon, _Vitya_ ,” says Yuuri, twisting around to kiss the inside of Viktor’s wrist. Viktor feels like a prince. A sad one, albeit, now doomed to wait in his ivory tower while his knightly knight ventures into the wild for mushrooms and whatnot.

 

“Sweet words will not placate me,” he sulks.

 

Yuuri simply waves goodbye.

  


//

  


When Yuuri returns, the apartment is stunningly quiet, save for the steady tick tock of the impressionistic wall clock in the room furthest down the hallway. Makkachin whines a short greeting at him from under the sofa, but doesn’t rush out to bowl him over.

 

True to his word, _soon_ had meant just a short while, an hour or two which would’ve been shorter, really, if Yuuri had not been sidetracked by the posh-looking lady walking an armada of dachshunds across the street.

 

The first order of business, naturally, is medication, but upon stepping into the room Yuuri finds Viktor still curled up in bed, eyes shut and a curtain of hair falling across the side of his face. His eyelashes flutter as his chest rises and falls gently, star-bright and beautiful.

 

Yuuri doesn’t have the heart to wake him up.

 

Instead he checks his temperature, ascertaining that it hadn’t shot sky-high while he was gone. Then he leans over Viktor and braces his arms carefully on either side of him, and kisses his forehead, the gesture gossamer-soft, like a butterfly’s wings.

 

“Good night, sleeping beauty.”

  


//

  


Yuuri feels a surge of embarrassment almost immediately afterwards (how cheesy, how terrible, surely Viktor would laugh if he heard, he'd never hear the end of it), and hurries off to prepare lunch.

  
Viktor flushes love letter-pink and hides his smile in his pillow.

**Author's Note:**

> 38.6 degrees celcius is 101.3 degrees fahrenheit  
> school has started and i'm drowning in year four hell so i expect i won't be pulling 8k fics out of my ass in two days for a while (though i have a fuck ton of ideas for shit). anyway, thanks for reading. if ya liked it consider leaving a kudo or a comment or don't, whatever floats your boat, mine got knocked to the bottom of the ocean. cos school.  
> feel free to harass me on twitter @ nikiforcvs, or on tumblr @ corpsentry
> 
> have a good one


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